“He must be there somewhere.”
“I don’t know, Ben. But even if he is, so what? We’re talking about testimony from an accused, if not convicted, felon. How much is that going to get you? Are Chief Blackwell or the DA going to change their minds based on that? I don’t think so.”
“Tyrone saved my life,” Ben said flatly. “And put his own life in danger to do it. We have to find him.”
“I’m doing everything I know to find him, Ben. It just isn’t working.”
“Do you—do you think—”
“I don’t know what to think, Ben. The whole thing is an ugly blood-stained mess. All I know for sure”—his voice grew bolder—“is that you had no business running out by yourself to play cops and robbers with a murderer!”
“Amen to that,” Christina echoed.
“I wasn’t looking for the murderer,” Ben insisted. “I was looking for Tyrone. The murderer just sort of happened.”
“How many times has this just sort of happened to you, Ben? You can’t keep thrusting yourself in the path of danger. Especially when you’re so ill equipped to deal with it.”
“I don’t think—”
“You’ve been lucky so far.” Mike looked at him sternly. “But that won’t last forever.”
“I have a duty to represent my client zealously, Mike.”
Mike waved his hands in the air. “Spare me the lecture. I’ve heard it all before. Every time some criminal attorney does something odious and irresponsible, he hauls out the Rules of Professional Conduct to show that he had an obligation to do it. As if common sense and conscience had been supplanted by a half-baked set of rules.”
“Mike, that’s not fair—”
“Never mind,” Christina said. “We didn’t come here to get into a philosophical debate. I have something for you.” She reached over Ben’s shoulders and wrapped a silver chain with a small silver medallion around his neck.
“What’s this? Are we going steady now?”
“It’s my Saint Christopher’s medal.”
“What? But—”
“I know what you’re going to say. You don’t believe in this hocus-pocus. Saint Christopher never really existed. Listen, I don’t know anything about that stuff. All I know is this: I’ve always worn that medal, and it’s always brought me luck. So now I want you to have it, ’cause I figure you need it more than I do at the moment. All right?”
Ben knew better than to argue. “Whatever you say. But I don’t see what good it will do.”
“It’s a beacon, you ninny.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“A beacon. To help your angel find you. I don’t expect you’re likely to make the call yourself, so I’m hoping the medal will do it for you.”
Mike pushed to his feet. “I also brought something for you.”
“What now—crystals?”
“I brought a somewhat more practical form of protection.” He picked up a wooden box resting on the coffee table. He turned it toward Ben and slowly lifted the lid.
Inside the box, wrapped in a velvet form-fitting compartment, was a brand-new bright and shiny handgun.
Christina gasped.
“This is for you,” Mike announced, pushing it toward Ben. “It’s a Sig Sauer .38, probably the best, most lightweight, most accurate small pistol in existence. I want you to take it.”
Ben pushed it away. “No way.”
“Take it!” Mike insisted. He shoved the box forcefully into Ben’s lap. “And if the situation arises, use it.”
“But I can’t—”
“I’ve already taken care of the license and registration. As you know, thanks to the NRA and its gun-fondling friends, carrying a concealed weapon is legal in Oklahoma now. So you should have no problems.”
“But, Mike,” Christina said, “Ben’s clueless about guns. He doesn’t know how to use it. He’ll shoot his foot off. Or worse.”
“Thank you very much,” Ben replied.
“I intend to teach him how to use it,” Mike answered. “I’ve reserved time for us at the firing range down at Eastern Division headquarters.” He handed Ben a piece of paper. “Here are the times. Be there.”
“I won’t come,” Ben said firmly.
“Then I’ll arrest you, put the cuffs on you, and drag you there!” His whole body shook as he spoke. “Your choice!”
Ben gingerly touched the weapon resting in the purple velvet. It gave him the willies just being near it. “I don’t think I can—”
“You can and you will,” Mike said firmly. “Pick it up.”
Hesitantly, his hand trembling, Ben lifted the weapon out of the box. He folded it into his palm the way he imagined you were supposed to, at least as far as he could tell from TV cop shows. He squeezed the weapon, feeling it in his hand. All at once, he felt sick to his stomach.
He dropped it back into the box like a hot potato. “I’m telling you, Mike: I can’t do this.”
“You can and you will. Now take this schedule. I expect to see you at the firing range.”
“Mike—”
“Listen to me!” His voice exploded with frustration and anger. “I’m not asking you to become Charles Bronson. I just don’t want to have to explain to your sister why your carcass is lying on a slab at the county morgue!”
Ben realized resistance was futile. In his own way, Mike was just showing that he cared. He took the paper and tucked it into his pocket. “Well, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to learn a little something about firearms.”
“Thank God for small favors.” Mike pushed himself off the couch. “And I was thinking a little self-defense training might not be such a bad idea, either. Maybe a little kung fu.”
“Now wait a minute—”
“I’ll send you that schedule as soon as I get it worked out.”
Ben turned toward Christina. “Christina, would you tell him he’s over-reacting? Tell him he’s being ridiculous.”
She shook her head. “Sorry, Ben. I’m just dying to see you in one of those cute belted pajama outfits.”
“Oh, ha-ha.”
“Relax. You can’t look any sillier than you did in that teeny little terrycloth towel.”
“Wait a minute. You went back to the car before I changed.”
“I sure did.” A grin crept across her face. “But it’s amazing what you can do with a pair of high-powered binoculars.”
Chapter 34
HE PICKED UP another plate and tossed it across the room, watching it shatter into a thousand pieces as it crashed against the opposite wall.
Goddamn it all to hell!
What was happening to him, anyway? Why couldn’t he finish a simple matter like this without creating so many complications?
He hurled another plate across the room. The sound of the impact, the sight of the destruction, had a soothing effect on his soul—but not nearly soothing enough. Why was this so hard? When he had done it before, it had gone without a hitch. And now it seemed everything he did led to one more screw-up, one more loose end needing to be tied, one more person who had to be killed.
And Earl Bonner still wasn’t behind bars!
He grabbed the entire stack of plates and flung them across the room. They didn’t make it all the way. They went down in the middle of the living room, crashing down on a glass tabletop, shattering everything, sending porcelain and glass shards flying in all directions. It made a terrible, soul-satisfying noise, one he was sure all the neighbors could hear as well.
Screw the neighbors. He needed this. He needed it.
He ran through the entire chain of errors in his mind. He’d managed to kill Lily and plant her in such a way as to make Earl Suspect Number One, but not without being spotted by that pipsqueak Tyrone Jackson, and not without losing something that could lead them all to his doorstep. He’d had to take care of the kid, but that had led to being spotted—again—by that piano player out on the highway. He wasn’t sure, but it was just possible the asshole could identify him.